


Darker Days

by athena_crikey



Category: Yes Minister
Genre: Gen, abusive language, almost h/c, past!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:17:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7452610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Humphrey wasn't always a moral vacuum; Bernard wasn't always appreciated for his work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darker Days

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Darker Days](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703330) by [Bug233](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bug233/pseuds/Bug233)



> Posting some old fic. :D

When Bernard is trawled into the DAA four months before the General Election that is to bring in Hacker’s party, he is of course introduced to Sir Humphrey Appleby. Their first meeting is in Sir Humphrey’s office, first thing in the morning with the sun pouring lazily in through dusty windows. Sir Humphrey is already running at full speed despite the early hour, and after a cursory introduction he hands Bernard a sheaf of briefing notes to read, two reports to edit, and several meetings to book into the Minister’s diary, then ushers Bernard out.

In all the hustle, Bernard doesn’t have time to point out that, in fact, they have worked together before. As he heads down the hall with his arms full of folders, he doesn’t really regret the missed opportunity; those were six weeks that he would rather not recall.

  
***

The first time Bernard joins the DAA is also in the weeks leading up to a General Election. This one, however, returns the incumbent party to power. During the election, Bernard discovers that being diary secretary to a non-existent Minister is possibly one of the most boring jobs in the civil service. After the appointment of their Minister, however, he quickly learns that it’s infinitely preferable to his new position: being diary secretary to a maniac.

Before his appointment, all the DAA knows about Brian Macklevore is that he was one of the hardest hitting back-benchers before the election, and one of the most charismatic faces of the campaign. His travel schedule was unbelievable, his speeches and town hall meetings wildly successful, and his youthful exuberance credited with the winning of two marginal constituencies in addition to his own. 

What the Department quickly discovers after his appointment is that without a camera in the room he’s short-tempered, foul-mouthed and abusive, and usually deep into the drinks cabinet by four in the afternoon. A strong permanent secretary might be able to deal with that, but Al Hancock is on his way out, ill and feeble and hanging on by his fingernails for the last three months until retirement. Without a strong leader to go to bat for them the Department rapidly devolves from shining halls of light to a warzone, men and women focusing solely on keeping their heads down and their work non-controversial. 

It’s through these foxholes and minefields that Bernard has to navigate, arranging meetings with staff who don’t want to attend them, booking appearances for a Minister who curses him out for it, and trying to support the rapidly cracking personal private secretary. After a few weeks only a handful of people in the Department don’t evaporate when they hear his footsteps in the hallway; one is Humphrey Appleby, Deputy Secretary in charge of contracts. The thanks he gets for it is more of the late afternoon slots no one else will attend; it’s very poor recompense, but there’s no other way Bernard can keep the diary running. 

There’s a lot of whispering in the hallways, furtive conversations in doorways that die out hurriedly when shadows appear on the walls. The Minister’s ears must be burning constantly; certainly from the way he behaves Bernard wouldn’t be surprised if he knew how many people in the Department wish him dead. It’s lucky that civil servants believe in memos rather than voodoo, otherwise there would be no space in the filing cabinets.

  
***

It’s late one afternoon when Bernard stops by Humphrey’s office to book a meeting on short notice. The Deputy Sec’s private secretary is gone for the day and Humphrey rarely answers his own phone, so Bernard carries the heavy book down to the other end of the building. He enters the outer office, and pauses at the sound of voices.

Normally, he would just take a seat and wait, but at the words “get rid of Macklevore” he perks up and slips over closer to the door to Humphrey’s office. It’s sitting just slightly ajar, letting a narrow pillar of light slice outwards on the dark carpet. The voices are easily loud enough to be audible; Humphrey and Bruce, the Minister’s PPS.

“We have neither the authority nor the right to remove members of Her Majesty’s cabinet, Bruce,” says Humphrey, sharply, voice hard with rebuke. 

“I’m not talking about removing him. Just… some light nudging. You know Hancock won’t do it; he’s hardly in the office these days, doesn’t even know Macklevore’s first name. If something isn’t done, this Department will come apart at the seams.” Bruce sounds desperate and bitter, and exhausted. It’s a PPS’s job to be his minister’s shadow, but that’s hard when the minister in question is apparently cousin to the common roach. 

Humphrey sounds unimpressed. “I fail to see what you think I can do about it. You are his private secretary – you have far more ability to arrange something … damaging.”

“And be crucified for removing a member of Her Majesty’s cabinet?” spits back Bruce, echoing Humphrey’s tone sarcastically. “Anything I arrange would be traced back to me. No, it needs to come from you or someone with the Cabinet Secretary’s ear.”

Humphrey sighs; Bernard hears him step away. “I’m sorry, Bruce, but I will not be party to this. It goes against every tenant of the service.”

“He is drunk, abrasive, abusive –”

“Physically?”

“No, but –”

“Then I doubt he is taking actions which have not been taken before in Whitehall. Unfortunate, but not exceptional. Unless he takes it in his head to give the Chancellor of the Exchequer the bird, he is unlikely to eject himself from his position.” Humphrey’s voice is cold and lecturing now. 

“We have a moral duty to protect this Department and the staff,” protests Bruce. 

“Not through subterfuge,” returns Humphrey, immediately. 

There is movement beyond the door, and Bernard dashes across the outer office as quietly as he can, rounding the door and escaping into the safety of the hall. He returns hastily to the Minister’s outer office, and is even breathing slowly by the time Bruce returns, glowering. He stands and picks up the diary.

“I was just going to drop by and book an appointment with Humphrey,” says Bernard, in what he hopes is a guileless tone. 

“Don’t bother,” snaps Bruce, pulling his coat off the rack in a harsh grab, “he’s gone for the night.”

It’s the last time the PPS stays past five o’clock.

  
***

It’s a week later, and Bernard is working alone late in the Minister’s office trying to arrange the Minister’s schedule so that he can attend a Party event as well as a ministerial one. The more he tries to shuffle appointments and meetings the more he realises that it’s simply impossible: the Minister will have to miss his Party event.

He’s just erased his eighth attempt at a work-around when a shadow falling over his book makes him look up. Nancy, an undersecretary from capital is standing in front of his desk with her black book clutched close to her chest. “I’m just going in for my meeting, Bernard,” she says. Her fingers, wrapped over the edge of the book, are white. Bernard smiles thinly.

“Alright. He should be ready for you.”

“Good.” She shifts, but doesn’t leave. “I wonder – if I – that is – it’s not good news, this report,” she finally says with sudden abrupt frankness, shifting her weight to push it out in front of her. 

“Oh.” His face falls, and hers does in response, and she nods. 

“Yes. I think it might… might upset the Minister,” she says, carefully. 

“Couldn’t Andrew present it?” Andrew Thicket, the capital Deputy Sec. Even as Bernard asks it he knows why Andrew isn’t there; he’s one of the many who disappears when Bernard calls to book a meeting. 

“He wasn’t free,” says Nancy, loyally; Bernard just barely manages an expression of neutrality. “I just thought if… if he doesn’t take it so well… if he takes very badly, in fact, maybe I could get an important call?”

Bernard blinks as Nancy stares significantly at him, and then straightens. “Oh, I see. Yes. Yes, I think I could arrange that.”

She relaxes slightly and gives him a weak smile. “Thanks Bernard.” She crosses to knock on Macklevore’s door, then disappears inside. Bernard watches it for a moment, then goes back to his scheduling. 

It’s about ten minutes later that he hears the roar. Macklevore’s voice cuts out almost immediately afterwards, but then returns full-force and blasts on without pause. Bernard scoops up the diary, pencil squished between its pages in his haste, and stands. 

He waits for a few seconds outside the door, but the yelling within shows no sign of abating. He takes a deep breath, then another, and then knocks. 

Macklevore is still shouting when he opens the door, and Bernard can see that he’s red-faced and furious, white collar a startling contrast against his bull neck. Nancy is on her feet, edging backwards. 

“You worthless, brainless little cunt – can’t you even add two and two together? This project’s going ahead, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you or your fucking assessments say! You can take your goddamn crap back to your desk and shit on it for all I care – that’s all it’s damn well worth!”

“I’m sorry,” spits out Bernard, voice cracking; both Nancy and Macklevore swivel to stare at him, “but a call just came through – urgent, your mother, Nancy. I think, um, health problems? Uh, maybe it was the hospital, actually,” he witters, unable to make up a coherent lie on the spot. It hardly matters, Nancy’s already hurrying towards him, face wet with tears. She doesn’t look at him as she passes him; she slams the door on her way out. Bernard stands, frozen awkwardly in the middle of the office. 

“What the hell are you staring at?” demands Macklevore, sitting back so sharply his chair creaks. Some of the blood drains away from his face, leaving a mottled, bruised look. 

“Uh, the diary, there’s something you need to decide, Minister,” manages Bernard, creeping forward. Macklevore has an empty tumbler on his desk, and picks up a bottle from his drawer to fill it from. He pours out and takes a sip as Bernard approaches and hesitantly opens the diary.

“You see, you’re double-booked for next Thursday, Minister,” begins Bernard, hurrying on when Macklevore growls. “There was a bit of a break-down in communication with your political advisor and I already had you booked to attend a committee meeting that evening. But you’ve also been scheduled to give a speech in Dorset. So I’ll have to cancel the speech.”

“The hell do you mean, cancel the speech?” demands Macklevore, brows spiking upwards.

“Well, the committee has been booked for several months, Minister, and it’s part of an official inquiry so I really couldn’t cancel that and it’s proven impossible to move it; you’ve a lot of appointments booked for that week and with such short notice there just aren’t any open slots to move it to.”

“You think you can just spring this on me, weasel your way into my goddamn work and edge me out of it? You think I wouldn’t fucking notice?” He slams his desk, making the glass shake. His face is turning puce, sweat beading along his hairline and over his lip. “Just wait ‘til it’s too late and I have no choice but to go in and do your dirty work for you, you little shit? You think you can fucking housetrain me, you toffee-noised mealy-mouthed sniveler?”

Bernard starts backing up, wide-eyed and trembling. “I – I – no, of course not, Minister, I …”

“You keep your grubby little fingers out of my appointments, you goddamn – ” Macklevore makes to shy his glass and Bernard ducks, hears it shatter against the wall. He drops the diary and scrambles backwards faster, hits the wall a few yards from the door, and doesn’t have time to duck the second tumbler. It strikes him a glancing blow to the temple and he stumbles, shocked by the sudden burst of pain. 

A flash of movement to his left makes him turn, and he sees Humphrey Appleby framed in the doorway for an instant, staring at him. Then the Deputy Secretary is striding swiftly into the room, face black and movements stiff. He takes Bernard’s shoulder in a hard grip, turns him half-round, and escorts him out of the room. “Go to my office and wait there. Don’t leave, and don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there shortly. Understand?” His tone is hard and curt, and leaves no room for questions. 

Bernard nods, wincing at the pain, and does as he’s told. The halls are empty as he hurries down them, office doors closed and phones silent. He keeps close to the wall as he reaches up to feel his head; there’s a bit of a lump already rising just over his ear, and the touch sends a stabbing pain through his temple. His fingers come away dry, though – no blood. 

Humphrey’s office is open, the light still on. He enters and sits down at the meeting table chair furthest from the door, back to the corner. Only then does he realise that he’s trembling all over, that he feels unaccountably cold inside his woollen suit even though he can feel the prickle of sweat over his back. His legs are shaking against his pant legs; when he puts a hand down on the table it makes the papers piled there quake. He’s breathing too fast, but holding his breath to try to slow it just makes him breathe all the faster. 

Humphrey arrives less than a minute later; whatever he said to the Minister can’t have been lengthy. He takes one look at Bernard, hunched miserably at the table, and strides over to the windows where he turns his radiators up so high Bernard can hear the steam hissing through them. He returns more slowly, approach hesitant, and lowers himself carefully into a chair a few feet from Bernard.

“Do you require medical care?” he asks, in a colourless tone. 

“No – no, I’m fine. That is – no,” stammers Bernard. “I probably had worse on the river at Oxford.” He had never been a very good at ducking, even then. Humphrey ignores the poor attempt at a joke. 

“I must ask you whether this is the first time he has ever thrown anything at you?” The Dep. Sec. watches him with apparent disinterest, as if he were questioning Bernard on meeting specifics. It’s familiar, normalizing, and Bernard feels his breathing beginning to slow. 

“Yes. I mean – it was.” 

Humphrey makes a steeple from his fingers, raises cautiously inquisitive eyebrows as he leans back slightly. “Nothing before? Not even paper?”

Bernard shakes his head. “No.”

“Has he ever exhibited any violence towards you before?”

He shakes it again, “No.” He’s starting to feel the heat now, feel himself beginning to warm. His shivering is lessening, gradually fading.

“Are you aware of his ever having thrown objects, or exhibited any violence towards anyone else, previously?”

“No. Although I –” he thinks of Nancy, of Arthur her boss who won’t book meetings with the Minister, of all the men and women in the halls who have been shying away from him whenever they see him. Was it only words they had been avoiding? He has no way of knowing. He closes his eyes and lowers his head. “No.”

Humphrey rolls his shoulders through a stretch and sighs. “Alright. That’s enough for now. You may stay here until you’re ready to leave; then you’re to go straight home. And take Friday off. Understand?”

Bernard looks up. Normally, he would refuse, or at least protest. But nothing about this past hour has been normal. “Yes, sir. Uh…?”

“Yes, Bernard?” He shows no sign of impatience or irritation, simply unfolds his hands in invitation. 

“What will happen?”

“To the Minister? Well, you are entitled to press charges with the police for assault. I will report this incident to the Cabinet Secretary. As it was not a direct case of assault, and as we have no proof beyond our testimony which he will doubtless dispute, it is possible that action may not be taken. However…” Humphrey pauses on the verge of some advice, voice pitched to offer a positive potential. 

Bernard raises his eyebrows hopefully. “Yes?”

He appears to think the better of whatever he was going to say, his face taking on a neutral expression. “We shall have to see. I advise you not to think on it over the weekend at least; wait until the water clears a little.”

“I see,” says Bernard, slowly. 

“Now, if you will excuse me, I have some papers I need to organize.” Humphrey stands, replaces his chair in its place and returns to his desk where he takes a seat and begins to flip through various files. He makes no further acknowledgement of Bernard’s presence, staring intensely at the papers in front of him. However, he makes no move to turn down the radiators which, being directly behind him, must be scorching him. 

It’s another few minutes before Bernard feels steady enough to leave. His head is aching, but it’s not a sharp pain and he feels no dizziness or confusion. He stands slowly, but while the pain increases slightly there’s no other effect. Humphrey looks up wordlessly, eyebrows arching.

“Um, I’ll be going now, if that’s alright. Thank you.”

Humphrey nods. “Good evening, Bernard.”

“Good evening.” He slips out of the office, and closes the door behind him.

  
***

Bernard spends Friday at home, reading and doing some chores. He doesn’t bother with the papers; for once, the goings-on of the political world hold absolutely no interest for him.

On Saturday morning he gets up, turns on his kettle, and fetches the paper. He doesn’t make it back to the kitchen; he’s stopped dead in the hallway by the headline: Minister Fiddles Finances! 

He opens the paper right there beside the hall table and reads the article: Brian Macklevore, Minister for Administrative Affairs, reported to have used his Department’s budget and staff to support political activities to the sum of ten million pounds. Opposition pushing for his immediate removal as Minister. Silence from the PM. 

Staring at the enumerated accusations, Bernard knows they’re not exactly true, but nor are they exactly false. Viewed in the correct light, and presented in the correct manner, they could be taken for the truth. Only someone intimately connected to the Department would know the details well enough to be able to present them in so flawlessly a political light to a reporter. 

By the evening press, the figures have been confirmed by further leaks; the backbenchers are scenting blood in the water. On Sunday, Macklevore announces his resignation as Minister; the papers are speculating on his removal from the caucus. 

On Monday, Bernard goes in to work to find the halls flooded with junior staff eager to take any opportunity to engage in outrageous speculation. Everyone is very busy, no work actually gets done, and the phones don’t stop ringing. Bernard only sees Nancy once on his way to the photocopier; she glances at him, does a slight double-take, and then smiles and nods. They don’t speak. 

Bernard learns early in the day that Humphrey Appleby is out of the office, busy setting up the leak inquiry with the other Dep. Secs and Al Hancock. They’re AWOL all week, in and out of meetings all day with, if the hallway gossip is true, the Cabinet Secretary breathing fire down their necks. 

On Thursday, Bernard’s informed that his name has been put in for a transfer to Ag and Fish to fill an unexpected vacancy. He’s not really sorry to be going. 

Needless to say, the leak inquiry does not actually determine the source of the leak, and Macklevore fades into a distant, if extremely distasteful, memory. 

It’s another 14 years before Bernard sees Humphrey Appleby.

  
***

In Jim Hacker’s first week in office, the Minister very nearly manages to commit man overboard. It is only Sir Humphrey’s actions – or intentional lack thereof – that prevent it. Hacker doesn’t read intentionality into the gesture, but it’s plain enough to everyone else.

It’s only after Hacker has left for the day, exhausted by his near-demise, that Bernard has the chance to mention it to Sir Humphrey over drinks in the latter’s office. It’s late in the evening, the overhead lights making the papers on Sir Humphrey’s desk look a sickly colour, the winter sky outside long-since dark.

“Sir Humphrey – may I ask you something?”

The Permanent Secretary gives a gracious incline of his head. “Ask away, Bernard.”

“I know it’s our job to protect the Minister, but if he’s resolved to do something that will result in his losing his position, what then? I mean, if he truly wants it…” Bernard trails off, shifting to sit up straighter as the ancient leather beneath him begins to soften. 

“It is at all times our duty to ensure the Minister achieves the best result for his Department, Bernard,” says Sir Humphrey, in his lecturing voice. “That precludes his being sacked for an idiot decision.”

Bernard pauses, sherry glass halfway to his mouth. “Always?” he asks, honestly. “Even if the Minister were actively endangering the Department?”

Sir Humphrey crosses his legs slowly, leaning back in his chair like an Oxford don about to give a coaching. “The power to promote or demote Ministers does not lie with us, Bernard. It would be a gross abuse of power to purposefully influence that process. Besides, a competent Department should be able to use even the most hopeless of Ministers to its advantage. It would be a poor Permanent Secretary who could not make gravy from a Minister’s idiot decisions.” 

“Yes, I see, Sir Humphrey. But… but if it were only a Deputy Secretary in this situation, say,” Bernard asks, hesitantly. 

Sir Humphrey raises his eyebrows, but shows no surprise or discomfort. “Deputy Secretaries are bound by the same principles as the rest of us Bernard. Of course, their scope of influence and action is reduced. Nevertheless, they must abide by the statutes of the civil service. They must not intentionally interfere with the political process. Apart from the ethical implications, the effects on the service were such an instance ever to get out would be ruinous. The damage to our reputation alone would be nearly irreparable. It is a thing which must not happen.”

“Never?” presses Bernard.

“Never, Bernard. Such is my opinion.” Sir Humphrey finishes his sherry in one swallow. “It is an opinion I have arrived at based upon years of experience and advice, and one which I suggest you adopt.”

Bernard nods slowly, disappointed. “Oh.”

Sir Humphrey taps his fingers against his now-empty glass, eyes staring vaguely at something on the other side of the room. “Like all opinions, however, it is not necessarily one which I have always held,” he admits in slow, measured tones.

Bernard blinks several times, and then nods. “I – I’m afraid I didn’t hear what you just said, Sir Humphrey,” he manages. 

Sir Humphrey turns to meet his glance and inclines his head with courteous sincerity. “Thank you, Bernard.” 

“I believe I should be thanking you, Sir Humphrey,” he says, earnestly. 

“What for?” returns Sir Humphrey, a model of blandness. His poker face is so flawless Bernard can’t tell if there is, in fact, anything under it. 

“Oh? Oh. Yes.” Bernard gives a weak smile, which falters and then disappears under Sir Humphrey’s cold eye. 

“I wasn’t exaggerating, Bernard: I do not condone any action of the type to which you are referring. You are the Minister’s PPS, it’s your job to see he doesn’t get himself into messes of that sort.” The Oxford don is gone, replaced wholly by the Permanent Secretary demanding what he absolutely expects to be given. There is no give and take here, nothing but what is acceptable, and what is not. 

Bernard lowers his head, examining the dusty pattern on the carpet. “Yes, Sir Humphrey,” he agrees, trying to keep querulousness out of his tone. 

“But,” continues Sir Humphrey, with a sudden sharpness that makes Bernard’s head snap up to meet his superior’s expectant stare, “it is my job to run this Department. If the Minister is impeding that, inform me. At once. Understood?” Sir Humphrey’s stare is intense, inescapable. Bernard doesn’t see the concern for his colleagues that he thought he saw there 14 years ago. But he sees a boundless need to ensure the successful survival of the Department which, in the end, will garner almost the same results. 

Bernard meets Sir Humphrey’s hard stare head-on, and nods. “Yes, Sir Humphrey,” he repeats, with far more conviction.

“Very well.” Sir Humphrey stands, somewhat abruptly, reaching out for Bernard’s empty glass and striding across the room to return the pair to the cabinet. “Thank you for this chat, Bernard.”

Dismissed, Bernard rises from the chair to head for the door. He knows he will never be given any clearer confirmation of who it was who leaked the documents 14 years ago than he’s just received, but he doesn’t need it. Civil servants, after all, never say anything outright, but they learn very early on to read the unstated. 

Hand on the doorknob, Bernard turns to glance over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Sir Humphrey.”

Sir Humphrey, taking a seat at his desk, doesn’t look up. “Goodnight, Bernard.”

They never mention it again.


End file.
